


Just a Touch

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has trouble falling asleep these days.  There's one thing he can do that always seems to help, but he's stuck in this hotel room with Sherlock and doesn't think he'll get the chance.  How will he ever find relief and a good night's sleep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Night Away

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you see any typos--I wrote this and posted it a lot more quickly than I usually do.

For three months after Mary died, John refused to help Sherlock on any cases. In the fourth month he relented, and by midsummer he had not only moved back into his upstairs room at Baker Street but agreed to accompany Sherlock on a case in Scotland. It would probably take a few days to solve, but John had no one in London who would miss him while he was gone.

The hotel that the local police put them up in was gorgeous; they probably wouldn't have time to use the golf course or the indoor pool, but their room had a huge shower and two queen-sized beds. The only problem was that John couldn't go to sleep.

It wasn't a new problem. For the first few months after Mary was gone he'd cried every night. Not always big, heaving sobs: often it was just a little sniffling, turning his face into the damp pillow while he shook himself to sleep. Even when he thought he felt all right during the day the tears would still find him when it came time to go to bed. It was almost comforting. But after a little while he had found another way to soothe himself to sleep. It didn't always work, sometimes the tears still came afterwards, but most of the time it was the best alternative. A coping mechanism that brought momentary pleasure and release and usually calmed his mind enough to sleep.

But tonight John was undressed and in bed in the dark in a swanky hotel in Edinburgh with Sherlock sitting in an arm chair across the room, his shoe-clad feet propped on his own bed, muttering under his breath about the case and the local police force's incompetence. John just wanted to go to sleep but he didn't know how to do that anymore without a little help. 

Sherlock cursed and pulled his phone from his pocket; John could tell from the sudden change in light that he dimmed the screen before he resumed muttering to himself. John thought about suggesting Sherlock go out for a smoke; that would give him a few minutes alone. No, Sherlock would know something was up if he said that. John's hand crept down to rest over the fly of his boxer shorts; maybe if he waited long enough Sherlock would decide to sleep himself.

No such luck. Sherlock dropped his feet onto the floor with a thud, sat up straight in the chair and said, "Oh, for God's sake, John, just do it already. It's not as if I haven't heard you masturbate before."

John swallowed and tried to choke out an objection but gave up before he formed any words. He rolled to his right, away from Sherlock. "Goodnight," he said, cutting the word short, certain that Sherlock would hear the rest of the sentence he formed in his mind. _And no, I will not be having a wank while you listen._

He didn't bother closing his eyes; he just lay in bed on his side, breathing evenly and waiting for the night to be over. The hotel sheets were smoother than he was used to; he kept his left hand clenched in them so it wasn't tempted to travel past his hip and into his pants. He could hear his watch ticking from where it sat on the table in between the beds; he wasn't counting but heard it cycle through at least a half-dozen minutes.

A rustling sound came from Sherlock's chair in the corner, then two light thumps as his shoes dropped from his feet. Maybe he would curl up in the chair and fall asleep, and then John would be able to do what he needed to do.

Sherlock stood; John heard a creak of the chair's cushions and a click of his knee and then a short shuffled step before Sherlock flopped onto the other bed. Was he actually going to sleep? John unclenched his fist from the bunched sheet and let his fingers curve down over the top of his own thigh. Sometimes Sherlock went out like a light and slept deeply; sometimes he tossed and turned and only dozed in spurts. Which would it be tonight? John's fingers tugged at the loose fabric of his shorts and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a little flush of anticipation as he thought of being able to touch himself once Sherlock was asleep. He let his first finger press lightly against the fabric of his fly, didn't allow the rest of his body to arch in reaction. 

Sherlock didn't go to sleep. More muttering, softly, this time, but he still sounded irritated, whether at John or something else John didn't know and didn't care. He heard the scratch of Sherlock's zip being undone and thought for a brief moment that Sherlock was actually getting ready for bed. Then Sherlock made a quiet huffing sound and John's own breath stuttered as he realized what Sherlock was doing.

"Well, come on, then." Sherlock's voice carried through the dark room. "You won't feel self-conscious if I'm doing it, too."

John had no idea how to respond. His mouth was too dry for speech even if he had known. He closed his eyes again, wondering what to do, and his left hand and cock provided the answer. A delicious chill sparked through his whole body with the first hesitant stroke he gave himself. 

At first he wasn't sure that Sherlock was really doing it, too. Sherlock had probably told the truth when he said he'd heard John wanking before—John's bedroom was right above Sherlock's—but John hadn't ever heard Sherlock doing the same. If someone had asked him, he would have said that Sherlock didn't do that sort of thing. But now, apparently, he was. There weren't any gasps or groans or even any heavy breathing coming from across the room, but if John held still and concentrated he could hear the mattress shifting, and the soft slip of fabric against flesh. Sherlock must have just opened his trousers and stuck his hand inside; John tried not to picture it. 

He stayed on his side, his back to Sherlock and the rest of the room, right arm pinned beneath him, left hand working with small, precise movements. His cock stuck out through his boxer shorts and he slid a tight fist up and down it, never reaching the base, instead stroking back up each time the side of his hand met the cotton fabric and the few rough curls of hair that edged through the gap. Many nights when he did this he thought of Mary, pictured her above or beneath him, smelt her perfume and felt her nails on his skin; often on those nights he would come and then cry himself to sleep anyway. Tonight he didn't picture anything, didn't fantasize; he just stroked himself and tried not to make a sound. He got hard and stayed that way, but every time he thought he might be getting close to the end his mind took over, reminding him to stay quiet, pulling his attention away to check if he could still hear Sherlock. It wouldn't do to keep going if Sherlock finished, or if he decided he'd had enough. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock would be like after orgasm—would he fall right to sleep? Would he bounce out of bed and flick on the lights and demand that they go back out into the rain to interview the gardener again?

John once more pushed the thoughts of Sherlock out of his head and focused on himself. There it was, right there; a little more pressure with the thumb. He raised his left knee, lifting the bedsheets into a tent and giving himself more room to move. Yes. A little firmer squeeze. He—

Sherlock made a noise. Not a very big noise, though it was deep and long and unmistakable, and John heard the mattress move and knew that Sherlock had lifted his head and shoulders from the pillow as he came. He still had his back to Sherlock, but he could picture it, Sherlock still in his suit, fully-clothed on the hotel bed with his trousers unzipped and his hand down his pants. Oh—

John collapsed away from Sherlock, rolling onto his stomach. He tried to keep hold of his cock but it slipped free; he felt it spasm against his stomach where he lay, coating the waistband of his shorts and the smooth clean sheets of the bed. He hoped he hadn't made a sound, wondered if Sherlock had been listening to him.

No more noise came from Sherlock's side of the room and John stayed as he was, not daring to move, certainly not brave enough to speak. It had worked though; he was ready for sleep. _I wonder if Sherlock is going to sleep now, too. I wonder if he does this every night._ The thought came just before his mind gave way to fragmented images and the beginnings of dream.


	2. The Second Night Away

Sherlock was already gone from the room when John woke up the next morning. He peeled himself out of bed, pulled the covers up to hide the stiffened reminder that decorated the sheets, and went to have a long shower. When he emerged from the bathroom Sherlock had returned with coffee and two oranges, which apparently was meant to be a complete breakfast. They spent the day together, interviewing more family members and witnesses and not talking about anything besides the case.

They worked past midnight, and by the time they ran out of people willing to be interviewed in the dead of night, John was tired enough that he thought he might be able to fall asleep without any added assistance. He turned his back to Sherlock, stripped down to his underwear and climbed into the bed. He pushed the pillows around until they sat properly beneath his head; his back had bothered him all day after falling asleep on his stomach last night. Well, tonight he would get a good night's rest—he just needed to close his eyes and let the exhaustion take over.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John."

John kept his hands tucked against the sides of his body and didn't answer. He didn't want to discuss last night and was rather surprised that Sherlock would, either.

Sherlock sighed. "You're not the only one who benefits psychologically from self-stimulation, you know."

"What?" He turned his head and squinted over at Sherlock, who was sprawled on his back across the other bed.

"You heard me." Sherlock hadn't bothered changing out of his clothes again tonight; at least he had showered and put on a clean shirt this morning. John heard him shifting atop the covers again, and then the slide of his zip. "Ah." That soft sigh was more vocalization than Sherlock had made throughout last night's entire episode. 

John blinked through the darkness at the vague outline of Sherlock with his soft cock in his hand and then turned up to face the ceiling. There was a smoke detector blinking green above the bed. "All right, then," he said, not even sure what he had just agreed to. He kicked back the sheet, lifted his hips and pushed his pants down to his knees.

"Mmm." Sherlock sounded as if he were agreeing with John, but then it turned into a bit of a moan and John had to pinch his lips tight to keep himself from gasping in response. He had never heard Sherlock make a sound like that before and he wasn't quite sure why hearing it now made his own cock start to plump where it lay against his groin.

"Can you not...do that?" John asked, even as he took himself in hand.

"I thought we were both going to do it again?" Sherlock's voice was a register deeper than normal but also oddly unsure.

"No, I mean, yes, we are. Apparently. But the sounds. Don't do the sounds, all right?"

"Sorry," Sherlock said, though the word trailed off into a bit of a self-satisfied chuckle that reminded John that it was still Sherlock making those noises, no matter how sensual they seemed to be.

He closed his eyes and focused his attention on himself. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. He was tired enough that he thought he could just close his eyes and go to sleep for the first time in a very long while. But he also had a very nice start on an erection, and it seemed a shame to let that go to waste. He skimmed his fingers down the side of it, the dry skin of his hand catching and pulling but not uncomfortably. He brought his hand back up and tightened it around the head, spread his legs as much as he could without taking off his pants all the way. 

Sherlock was quieter now, but John could hear that he had found a rhythm, evident in the rasp of his breath and the soft hiss of fabric as his shirt sleeve brushed against his stomach with every stroke. 

John took a deep breath and wriggled down into his pillow, trying to find the most comfortable position. He started slowly, not matching Sherlock's quicker pace. Just a light glide, no hurry. Sometimes when he was tired like this he would start to touch himself and then drift off, only to wake hours later with his hand cramped from cradling himself all night. If he'd been home that would probably be what happened right now, but he wasn't home. He was in a luxury hotel with Sherlock, Sherlock who didn't care about his body and never thought about sex, Sherlock who was stretched out fifteen feet away from him, making steady little huffing sounds as his hand moved up and down. John was not going to fall asleep.

He wondered why Sherlock was doing this again tonight—maybe he did make a habit of it. Maybe John's impression of Sherlock's disinterest in this particular type of pleasure was wrong. Maybe Sherlock spent time doing this every night in his bed at home. Maybe after John went upstairs Sherlock shed his dressing gown and draped himself across his bed and slipped a hand down his pants. John's hand sped up at the thought that maybe they had both done this at the same time before, without John ever knowing. He wasn't even sure why that idea excited him so, but it did. He risked a quick glance across the darkened room. Sherlock didn't seem to notice him, so intent he was on rutting into his own hand, sending ripples cascading through the hotel's thick, plush mattress.

John swallowed and turned his gaze back up to the ceiling. It was too dark to pick out much detail, and anyway he'd seen Sherlock naked before, although certainly not like this. He closed his eyes but could still see Sherlock's shadowy silhouette, legs spread, knees bent, left hand splayed on the hotel's bedspread while the right one pumped in time with the thrust of his hips. Oh, God. Why. Why did that make John speed up his hand again until it matched Sherlock's pace? He wondered for a moment and then decided he didn't care; tonight was already shaping up to be the most enjoyable time he'd had in nearly a year.

And now Sherlock was back to making sounds. Not so loud that John was worried about any other guests in the hotel complaining, but loud enough. John had heard a lot of men getting themselves off—army barracks weren't known for their privacy—but most people tried to censor themselves a bit when they knew other people could hear. Sherlock didn't seem to care; he let deep, primal grunts and groans escape with each breath. Or maybe he knew what he sounded like, and what effect hearing him would have on John. It was a shock to John, but maybe Sherlock had known. John let his own mouth fall open and felt himself relax into the bed even as a different kind of tension built through his groin. 

John had never been particularly vocal, and since Mary was gone he had been even quieter than normal. There seemed to be something ineffably sad about expressing his pleasure out loud when there was no one else to hear. But tonight there was someone to hear, so he stopped trying to hold back the sounds his body wanted to make. When he reached down with his right hand to cup his own bollocks he didn't try to hide the moan that escaped. 

The moan turned into something of a whimper as the rhythm he had began to break up. Sherlock still seemed to be going steadily but John had reached the frustratingly exquisite point where he wanted to come but he also wanted to keep going. He exhaled and lifted his head to look down at himself, then dared another quick glance across the room. Sherlock's head was turned toward him; it was too dark for their eyes to meet, but Sherlock was definitely looking at him, and now it was too late, John couldn't last any longer. All the muscles from his thighs to his torso clenched at once and he made a long, guttural vowel sound, an echo of that first sound Sherlock had made earlier tonight.

John lay on his back, waiting to be able to breathe again; he heard Sherlock's grunts get louder and impossibly deeper before he gasped once and stopped moving. John blinked his eyes closed and then open, then squirmed on his back toward the edge of his bed so he could reach the box of tissues on the nightstand. He grabbed a handful and then threw the box across the space between them to land on the bed next to Sherlock. 

"Thanks," Sherlock said, his voice rough and abused. 

"Mm-hmm," John replied. "Thank you." He smiled into the dark and then rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.


	3. The Final Night Away

Sherlock solved the case the next morning. Following some convoluted train of logic that John couldn't even begin to follow, he pinned the Edinburgh murder on the grandson, then connected the grandson's girlfriend to a theft and forgery case in Manchester, then tied the whole thing together with three open cases in London that Lestrade's crew had been working on for months. 

The local police were happy to have their murder solved, less happy when Lestrade showed up to take the perpetrator back to London. What followed was a full-blown fight over jurisdiction that still wasn't resolved by late evening.

Lestrade refused to return to London without the suspect, and John didn't really blame him. That was, until he asked John and Sherlock where they were staying.

"Oh, that's a gorgeous hotel. Got space for one more in your room?"

John shook his head just as Sherlock said, "Sure, why not?"

"Sherlock! We don't have space. There are only two beds."

Lestrade shrugged. "Double beds, aren't they?"

"Queen-sized," Sherlock said. "And you can have my bed. I slept last night. I don't need to make a habit of it."

John gave a snort and glared at Lestrade. Not only was the DI's presence inconveniencing him, it was making John think about why it was an inconvenience. It was one thing to enjoy getting himself off while listening to his best friend do the same; it was quite another to have to admit to himself that he'd been looking forward to doing it again tonight. 

"You and I could catch the train back to London now," John suggested. They didn't need to be around for the legal wrangling Lestrade was sure to be involved in the next day.

Sherlock shook his head. "I like it here. Let's stay."

John stared at him. What did that mean? Did Sherlock regret what he'd done the past two nights? Was this his way of letting John know it would not be happening again?

Sherlock sprang for takeout and the three of them sat in the hotel room eating a late dinner. Lestrade and Sherlock spent the meal discussing the case and John found he wasn't very hungry. He dumped the remnants of his food into the rubbish bin, grabbed his last pair of clean underwear and went to have a shower.

He was tempted to have a wank in the shower. He could do it quickly enough that neither Sherlock nor Lestrade would notice anything amiss. He slid a soapy hand down his stomach, twirled a curl of wet, tangled hair around his finger, and then stopped. He was a grown man; he could go a day without an orgasm. Tonight would be the perfect chance to prove it to himself.

Sherlock and Lestrade were still talking when John came out from the bathroom. Sherlock looked up and locked eyes with him for a moment, then when back to chatting about murder. John sighed and got into bed, turned his back to the others and closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure which was more surprising: realizing that he had actually fallen asleep, or opening his eyes to find Sherlock staring down at him in the dark. He was standing between the wall and John's bed, wearing pyjama bottoms and an unbelted dressing gown over his bare chest. He pushed his knee against the side of the mattress again and John raised his head in protest.

"Shh." John felt as much as heard Sherlock's soft admonishment. _Don't shush me, you woke me up._ He didn't say anything, though, just tipped his chin up questioningly. 

Sherlock nodded his head and waved one hand at John. His meaning was clear: move over. John didn't hesitate—he moved over. He kept his back to Lestrade and the rest of the room, but he didn't need to look to know that Lestrade was asleep. John was surprised he'd been able to sleep through the buzz of his snoring.

Sherlock climbed into the bed next to John, settled on his side to face him and adjusted the sheet so they were both fully covered.

"I thought you weren't going to sleep tonight," John whispered.

"I'm not," Sherlock replied. His voice was so soft that John could almost think he had misunderstood.

"We—" John started, then pushed himself up on one elbow and craned his neck to look over at Lestrade's sleeping form. "He—"

"He's asleep," Sherlock said. "He won't wake up."

John turned back to Sherlock; they were close enough that he could see his face clearly even in the darkened room. "Did you drug him?"

Sherlock smiled; John could hear the laugh he was trying to hold back. "No. We just need to be quiet enough that we don't wake him up."

John thought about what Sherlock was suggesting, then decided not to think about it anymore. "I can be quiet."

"I know," said Sherlock, and snaked his right hand down into his own pyjama bottoms. John felt his exhalation, warm breath against his face; the length of a pillow separated them.

"Sherlock." This was more than masturbating at the same time, wasn't it?

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock said. John wasn't sure if that was a question or an answer. "Close your eyes if you want. Just keep quiet and still." Sherlock closed his own eyes, then, and started to move his hand. 

John watched Sherlock, watched his face, didn't look down at his hand, just looked at his face. Sherlock's lips moved, as if they wanted to make a sound, but he was silent; even this close John couldn't hear more than the whisper of his breathing and a very slight shifting of the sheet that covered them both to mid-chest. Even if Lestrade woke up and looked at them, he wouldn't see anything, would he? Just John and Sherlock, lying on their sides facing one another, with plenty of space in between their bodies. 

John reached his own hand down between his legs. He was hard already; it had started to happen as soon as Sherlock climbed into bed next to him. He unfastened the single button on his boxer shorts and took one more look at Sherlock's face before he closed his own eyes.

One swipe up and down and John was leaking; he smeared the warm liquid with his thumb, spread it along his own length. He could hear Lestrade's snoring and smell Sherlock's cologne and feel his own cock thicken in his hand. He thought this would be much quicker than the last two nights, but that was all right—it meant less risk that they would be caught in the act. 

Once more Sherlock set the rhythm; John picked it up easily this time. When they'd settled in, pumping and stroking together but apart, it was easy to concentrate on himself and he almost forgot that he wasn't alone. He shifted his position and paused to catch his breath for a moment; the sheet that covered them both kept moving, soft friction that reminded him he was not by himself. He opened his eyes and watched Sherlock's face: lip caught between teeth, a slight frown of concentration, hair matted against the pillow. It was not a version of Sherlock that he had known before.

John inhaled and tightened his grip on himself, moved his hips into the motion. His knee brushed against Sherlock's leg and Sherlock's eyes flew open, a shocked pale gaze catching John's in the dark. Then Sherlock smiled and brought his other leg to rest against John's. John swallowed but did not break his rhythm. He'd forgotten the sensation of another person's skin in moments like this.

Sherlock made a little whining sound and John shushed him, raised his right hand to Sherlock's face and held a finger in front of his lips. Sherlock bit the sound off; a shudder went through his long body that John felt in the echo of the mattress and the pull of the sheet. John dropped his right hand back onto the bed and thrust hard into his other hand, breaking the contact of their legs. Sherlock stared at his face but John looked down, his view obscured by the sheet but unable to meet Sherlock's eyes at this moment. "Shh," he said again, and pretended it was its own word and not the beginning of a name. "Shh." He closed his eyes and held his breath and knew he must be hitting Sherlock as he spurted and spurted beneath the sheets. 

"John." Sherlock's voice was low enough that John wasn't even sure he heard it. He looked back up and saw Sherlock's eyes were closed now, his head tipped back. "John." Sherlock's free hand moved toward him, stopped inches away from John's stomach, then darted down to cover his own cock. He bucked and shook beneath the covers; John didn't move, even once Sherlock was still. Nearly a minute must have passed before Sherlock opened his eyes again. John wasn't sure how to react, but Sherlock grinned and whispered, "I think I need to wash my hands."

John smiled and rolled onto his back, tucking himself away, as Sherlock slipped out of the bed. He couldn't swear to it absolutely—he'd been distracted a bit in the middle—but he was fairly certain Lestrade's snoring had never missed a beat. He felt like a teenager again, sneaking around behind his parents' backs while he discovered all the pleasures of his body.


	4. Back Home

At some point in the night John had rolled over onto his side; when he woke up and opened his eyes he found himself looking at Lestrade, who was sitting on the other bed with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching a football broadcast on mute.

Lestrade looked at John and raised his coffee cup in greeting. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone I saw you two sleeping together."

John sucked in a quick breath and couldn't stop his eyes from flicking over to Sherlock, who was fully dressed and sitting in the armchair by the window. Sherlock sipped at his coffee and turned the page of the newspaper he was reading. "I wasn't sleeping," he said nonchalantly.

Lestrade laughed. "Right. I got up to use the loo around dawn and you were dead to the world, Sherlock."

John swallowed in relief and poked his arms out from beneath the covers to stretch. "Shouldn't you be off arguing with Chief Superintendent Williams already, Greg?"

"Yeah, yeah, don't remind me." Lestrade gulped the rest of his coffee and tossed the empty paper cup toward the bin. "I've already got three texts from his department this morning."

"Just tell him I won't come solve any more crimes for him if he doesn't let Scotland Yard have first crack at the suspect."

"No, you've got that backwards, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "The threat is that I will send you up here more often."

Sherlock turned another page in his newspaper. "I wouldn't mind a return trip or two. How about you, John? Would you like to come back here again someday?" He didn't look up from the paper but John could hear the real question behind his words. 

John kicked off the covers and sat up in bed and thought about how to let Sherlock know how he felt without giving anything away to Lestrade. He looked past Sherlock at the view out the hotel window. "I wouldn't mind playing a little golf," he said.

Sherlock hid his smirk quickly; Lestrade never took his eyes off the telly. John slid out of bed and went to go see about breakfast.

Fifteen hours later John and Sherlock were back at Baker Street, and it was late enough that John could no longer avoid going to bed. Not that he wanted to avoid it; he just wasn't sure how to approach it. On the one hand, he was pretty sure it was now possible for him to go to bed on his own, to lie down and close his eyes and fall asleep without tears or anything else. On the other hand, why would he want to do that if he didn't have to?

Sherlock was in the kitchen, fiddling with test tubes filled with murky brown water and humming under his breath. John stopped in the doorway and watched him for a minute. When Sherlock looked up at him John said, "I'm going to need you to wash your hands before you come to bed."

Sherlock blinked at him; he should've been wearing goggles, John thought—who knew what was in that dirty water? John smiled and took two steps into the kitchen and then realized that Sherlock was still just staring and blinking at him, holding a tube with cleanish-looking water in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. "Sherlock?" he asked, his stomach suddenly knotting up as the thought occurred to him that maybe Sherlock considered the past few nights to be a one-off, something that happened while they were out of the country but not anything he wanted to repeat at home. "Sherlock?" He wanted to take another step closer but couldn't make himself do it.

Sherlock's blinking turned even more rapid, and then he dropped the tweezers onto the table and shoved the tube into the rack, nearly upending the whole row of water samples. "My hands, yes, let me wash my hands." He stood up, pushing the chair back with his legs and nearly tipping it over backwards. John let out a shaky, relieved breath and watched as Sherlock first wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and then moved to the sink for an actual wash. Seeing Sherlock discombobulated was a rare experience that John probably shouldn't have enjoyed as much as he did.

It didn't last long. By the time Sherlock had cleaned and dried his hands he managed to collect himself enough to appear unfazed. He turned to face John and clasped his hands behind his back, gave a smile that was slightly crooked and unmistakably genuine. "So." Sherlock looked John up and down, as if just noticing he was dressed for bed. "My bed is bigger."

John nodded. He had a double bed upstairs, but Sherlock had a queen-sized mattress, like the one they'd shared in the hotel. "Yeah. We'd be touching if we were both in my bed."

Sherlock's eyes widened and John replayed his own words, not sure if he'd said them on purpose or not. "Your bed," Sherlock breathed, his voice low and throaty, not a whisper but a promise of what was to come. 

John led him upstairs. He opened the door to his bedroom, suddenly strangely nervous about having Sherlock in his room. Not even in his bed, just in his room, which was ridiculous. Of course Sherlock had been in here before, though he'd never stood next to John's bed and stripped down to his pants before. John gulped as he remembered he still had a picture of Mary sitting on his nightstand. Should he try to unobtrusively turn it face down, so Sherlock wouldn't see it? No, Sherlock wouldn't mind. Mary wouldn't have minded, either. She'd want to watch. She'd always said...she'd always said and he'd always laughed it off. Even though he and Sherlock had both always known they loved each other, John had always laughed it off.

John hung his dressing gown on the back of his door and then got into bed; Sherlock waited until he was situated before climbing in next to him. John still wasn't sure exactly what they were going to do—he didn't even know what he wanted himself, much less what Sherlock's expectations or desires might be. He pushed the sheet and blanket down with his feet and stretched out on his back; Sherlock did the same. He thought he should feel awkward, like he had as a kid the first time he brought a girl home while his parents were out, but he didn't. He lay on his back next to Sherlock, breathing easily, feeling the tension coming from Sherlock's side of the bed lessen as both of their pulse rates slowed. They weren't touching, though their bodies were close. He moved his arm a few inches to the side and caught Sherlock's hand in his. 

Sherlock's fingers threaded through his, tightened and then relaxed. John pushed his feet into the mattress and lifted his hips so he could squirm out of his pants; it was much easier once Sherlock realized what he was doing and let go of his hand.

"Okay," Sherlock said, and pulled off his own pants. John looked down at him for the first time in full-light. Sherlock was partially hard, his cock pink against dark hair; seeing that made John harden in response. He reached down and swiped his hand over himself while Sherlock studied him, head raised from the pillow, eyes flicking from John's face to his groin and back again.

"Can I?" John asked. Sherlock lifted his hips as an answer and John put his other hand on Sherlock. How had a few months alone made him forget what it felt like to touch someone else, to feel someone react to him and to have his own pleasure increase in response?

"John." Sherlock lifted his hips again, rocking into John's hand, his own arms still held stiff at his sides. 

"Yes." John slid his whole body closer so their sides were touching. 

Sherlock gave a soft moan and then rolled to face John. He gave another long, appraising look, probably trying to deduce John's thoughts, though at the moment the sum of John's thoughts were, _This feels good. I like doing this with you._ Sherlock smiled, soft and open, and then touched John in return, wrapped his huge hand around John and started to move.

Sherlock was a little too tall and they had to adjust a bit before they each found the right spot, arms bent and stretched and legs overlapping. They had different techniques: John used more of a slide, slipping his hand up and down, while Sherlock tended to more of a pulling and pumping motion. It didn't matter; everything felt good. 

John came first. He suspected that was going to be their pattern; Sherlock seemed to have more control of himself, even in this domain. But apparently finding himself with a sudden handful of John's come worked as a catalyst; he let go of John's cock and clamped his sticky palm over John's hand. John led him through a couple more strokes and then Sherlock convulsed, shuddering and shaking and chanting John's name.

It took a while for them both to recover; for John, at least, that was less from physical exhaustion than from the novelty and now-resolved uncertainty of the situation. He watched as Sherlock's muscles slowly unclenched and his breathing calmed. Eventually Sherlock tipped his head up so they were looking directly at one another again and John grinned. He wanted to say something, but he had no idea what words, so instead he scooted forward and gave Sherlock a kiss: open-mouthed, tongue and teeth and spit and breath and everything he wanted to say. Sherlock wrapped long arms around him and didn't let go. John still didn't know what either of them wanted, but it didn't matter. They would find what they needed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and subscribed and left kudos and comments. I started out writing this as a fun little idea to get myself back in the habit of posting a multi-part work, and I was surprised at the positive response to it. I hope you've all enjoyed it--if you did, you might want to check out some of my other work. ([This one is angsty but my personal favorite](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520).) Thank you all so much!
> 
> Come see me on tumblr: [MissDavisWrites](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)


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